Malady
by SomewhereApart
Summary: For OQ Prompt Party Day 6: 93. Regina is sick, her men take care of her


_For OQ Prompt Party Day 6: 93. Regina is sick, her men take care of her_

* * *

Autumn settles over the Queen's castle with its usual damp chill, and it doesn't take long for the sniffles to start. Something about the mandated close quarters, the days of soggy downpour, the mix of ailments from old world and new – it all has this particular string of illness seeming more irksome than usual.

They drop like dominoes (a game from the Other Land that Robin has learned he quite likes, over several tankards of ale in the great hall late in the evening), one falling ill, then another nearby, another, another.

It's three weeks (one he'd spent feverish himself, coughing into a kerchief while a chilly sweat never seemed to leave him be as he made his patrols) before he notices the Queen's absence.

Or rather, before Roland does.

He'd been ill just a week prior, had been coughing up thick mucus, gasping around congested lungs, his cheeks pink with too much warmth. And she'd descended from her upper floors of quarantine like an angel from the heavens – or climbed up like a dark angel from the depths, if he was being more accurate, because she'd come with a satchel filled in her vault. A tincture, a potion, a blend of leaves for brewing into tea he was to drink every morning and every evening, and a salve that made Robin's eyes water, and cleared the last vestiges of stuffiness from his own sinuses.

And then she'd slathered him in the most beneficial medicine of all: a mother's affection. She'd curled Roland's sweaty (now medicinally fragrant) body into her side and opened the pages of his favorite book, reading to him in low tones until he'd dropped off into sleep. And staying with him for a while so that Robin could take a full supper without worry.

Roland had made a swift recovery under the Queen's remedies, and he'd meant to deliver her a gift in thanks. A drawing he'd made of her, quite crudely drawn with his young hand, but unmistakably the queen nonetheless, what with her high collar, and her wildly coiffed hair. And of course, a carefully drawn Roland holding one of her hands, that favored book an over-large square across her other arm.

But on the day he'd drawn it, the Queen had neglected to come to breakfast. They'd missed her at luncheon as well, and her table had sat empty at suppertime.

It's not unheard of for her to take a day to herself, locked away poring over volumes in search of tactics to use against her sister, or brooding over some inner torment she refuses to share with the rest of the world. So Robin pays that first day no mind, and does his best to soothe his son's disappointment.

The next day, though, is harder to excuse, and the day after that, impossible to ignore.

Roland has become _quite_ fretful at the thought of his missing Majesty – had scarcely deigned to sleep this evening, soothed to slumber only by promises that Robin would go investigating Regina's whereabout just as soon as Roland was put to bed.

And so, it's on his son's orders that Robin Hood finds himself knocking delicately on the Queen's chamber doors in the late evening hours of her third day of confinement.

He's not sure if he expects any answer, but one is not forthcoming.

At least, not in the traditional sense.

He doesn't hear a "Come in," or a (more likely) "Leave me the hell alone, thief."

Instead, he hears a wet, barking cough that makes his instincts stand to alert.

It's not a sound of the well, that's for certain. And the gods know, she could be left alone up here to tend to her own illness for days if she puts her stubborn mind to it. There are few who will come to check on her, and even fewer that she'll permit access to, so Robin takes it upon himself to shirk her permission and grant his own entry.

The door is locked, but not by magic. And a lock is no obstacle for the likes of him.

He's inside her chambers in no time, the air inside the lofty room feeling close and overly warm (there's a fire positively roaring in her hearth – at least she's not been left here to shiver herself to death). He makes his way slowly from the entrance into the main chamber, and what he finds makes his heart ache.

She looks so much _smaller_ there, cocooned in her bed as she is. There are blankets piled high around her, over her, and only her bare face peeking out of the covers. It's flushed, and clammy, and utterly bare of the usual rouge and kohl. He's never seen her unpainted before, never seen her without her finery, and he has to tell himself it's impolite to think thoughts of flattery and flirtation toward one who is so clearly ill, because he finds the sight of her in all her natural beauty delightfully alluring.

His unending attraction to her (one he's almost certain she in no way reciprocates) isn't the most important of their matters this evening, though. She needs a carer, needs someone to ply her with tea and tinctures and ointments just like she had Roland. (No doubt her days playing nursemaid are the cause of this particular malady anyway.)

And so he makes his way to the bedside, sinks gingerly into the pillows, and reaches over to press the backs of his fingers to her cheeks.

She's scorching.

Positively burning up – her nest of blankets surely doing her overheated body little good. Robin moves to loosen her from their cozy embrace, to let a bit of air in and let her body cool down, but the second he shifts the blankets from near her chin, she moans and clutches them more tightly.

"Your Majesty," he coaxes lightly, and then when he gets no response, "Regina – milady."

Her eyes crack open, bleary, glassy, a wrinkle knitting dissatisfied between her brows. She manages something that he thinks is meant to be a "What?" but comes out more like a "Whann?"

He can hear the coated raspiness of her voice, and feels phantom pains in his own throat when he swallows thickly and winces.

"You're burning with fever," he tells her gently, tugging at the blankets once more. "We need to get some of these covers off of you; you'll roast to death."

He hears her, "'d rather die," rasped and groaned as it is, and isn't sure whether to smirk and scold. He can't tell how serious she is, so he decides to simply let it go, easing the blankets away again gingerly and coddling her the way he had Roland.

"Now, now, milady," he croons. "You'll feel better if you can let off some of this heat. Come on, now…"

He gets them down to her chest, before she's clutching them again, curling into herself and complaining that she's cold. As if to prove her point, she starts to shiver ever so, burrowing more deeply into her covers.

"No, milady, you're not cold," Robin soothes at her, reaching over to brush a fall of hair from her face. The raven locks are greasy, curling at will and a bit tangled, instead of her usual perfect display.

Robin's heart aches for her.

"You're rampant with fever," he insists, frowning when another gentle tug of the blankets reveals her nightgown, a simple linen one that's drenched in sweat. "You need a cool bath, milady."

One eye cracks open again, balefully, and she grits her teeth against the urge to chatter them, insisting, "I'm too cold, and there's nobody in this castle I'd allow to bathe me."

"Not even a lowly thief who's proven he can keep a promise?"

She frowns slightly at that, her lips chapped and dry.

"I do think I've proven myself both worthy of your trust and well capable of discretion." There's not a soul in the castle who knows she'd been set on taking her own life – or as good as – when they'd first set foot back in this castle. Not a one, except him, and her. "Please, milady, I have no lecherous intent, but I do have grave worries about your health. It's not safe for one to run so warm with fever."

She blinks blearily, mulling it over, he hopes, but it takes until he encourages her again with, "I'm sure you'd be more comfortable if you were clean," for her to finally give a jerky nod.

He'd never have said it to her outright, but two days drenched and too warm in bed have left her… a bit ripe. She smells of sweat, and stale breath, and illness; feeling clean is likely something she'd abandoned three days past.

So it's that which draws her out of her modesty, slightly unsteady fingers pushing down at her covers, her over-taxed body groaning as she sits. She presses a hand to her head immediately, with a breathless, "Dizzy," her eyes screwing shut.

Robin lets one hand fall to her elbow, hoping it serves like an anchor to a world apparently shifting to and fro.

When she makes to stand, it's on wobbly knees, and Robin doesn't even bother to ask, simply slides an arm beneath her and guides her toward her spacious bath.

It takes a moment for him to figure out how to work her taps, but as she sits there on the lid of the chamberpot and wraps her arms around her middle to keep warm, he finally manages to get the tub filling. He checks the temperature – not too hot, not too cold – and then they're faced with the feat of getting her naked into the rapidly rising bath water.

They're both thinking it, he can tell from the way she's looking at the tub, and he mutters, "So, um… If you'd prefer to keep your dressing gown on… that's quite alright…"

Regina scoffs, and orders, "Just help me into the water, then turn your back," her derision falling a bit flat what with the way she's hugging her arms around herself.

He does as ordered, helps her to steady herself as she climbs jelly-kneed into the filling tub and then gives him a look.

Right so.

Time to look away.

Robin does just that, thankful to discover this room has nothing in the way of mirrors as he waits for the slosh of bath water, for her nightdress to flutter to the floor beside him.

"You alright?" he asks as she moans her discomfort for a moment.

She assures him she's fine, then lets out a contented sigh, and Robin can't help but smile.

"Still cold?" he wonders, and she grouses a resigned _Yes,_ but it doesn't take long for her to adjust.

Within five minutes, perhaps ten, the shivering, too-cold sensations have been replaced by the lapping of lukewarm water, the clean slipperiness of soap. She bathes and soaks, and he stands guard—but not watch—as she finishes.

But she's still a bit wobbly on her feet, a bit weak, so when it comes time to draw her from the soothing (but rapidly cooling) bath water, they're faced with a new dilemma. She's a bit too weak and wobbly to hoist herself up to her feet in such a slick bowl of porcelain, but any proper assistance will afford Robin an unfettered peek at her nude form.

Her hesitation is palpable, but he promises, "I'll look only at your face, your Majesty, I promise," and so he's granted permission once again.

Looking at her face had been a mistake.

She's still flushed, but no longer sweaty, and those tangled curls are now a spiralling, dripping rope over one shoulder, down over her breast. Robin has to force himself to stare into those bloodshot eyes (those dark chocolate eyes, usually so full of fire and sass and wit) as he wraps her in a thick, fluffy towel, and then assists in her attempt to climb from the clawfoot tub.

She mutters something disparaging about it as she nearly trips and ends up landing smack against his chest, Robin's arms strong around her torso. He doesn't let go as she pulls her last leg free, and doesn't say anything about the way she leans into his chest for just a moment and exhales.

Her hair drips damply against his tunic, but he doesn't pay it any mind. He simply spends a moment bracing her – it's not an _embrace_ , no, just a steadying hold – until she's ready to make her way back to the bed.

Finding a clean dressing gown for her is another ordeal – she has plenty, but they're mostly sheer, or silk, or impractical for any actual sleep, much less sleeping with a fever. He leaves her on the bed to rifle through her wardrobe for something linen or cotton, something breathable.

Finally, he finds something, a plain shift of royal purple cotton that is neither too skimpy nor too warm.

But when he turns back to the bed, he finds he's too late.

She'd sunk down from where he'd left her, perched at the edge of the bed. Had lain back and curled round one of her pillows, it seems, and now she's out cold again. All her energy sapped by the bath. He can't very well leave her sleeping in a damp towel, so he carries the nightgown to her bedside, then attempts best he can to divest her of the towel and simultaneously cover her with the sheet.

(He doesn't mean to catch a glimpse of a dusky brown nipple, a sinful curve of breast, but he does, and he tells himself _not_ to file away the detail for later ruminating.)

Sleeping in the nude isn't ideal either, but at least her covers are all mostly dry, at least her own body will keep her warm. And he's no intent to leave her, except perhaps to return to his rooms and gather the last of the medicines she'd provided for Roland. So if she grows too warm or catches another chill, he'll be right by her side.

It's a thought that comforts him enough to settle for a reasonable drape of blankets and quilt over her ailing form, and then he's feeling her temperature again. Lower, she's not as sweaty as before, but still warm.

He'll need to get some water in her, and a bit of tea. Some food, as she's no doubt starved herself in her absence from the dining hall. But all of that will wait, until she's rested.

For now, he'll just keep watch over her, studying the rhythm of her breath, listening to the crackling of her fire, the rasp of the mucus in her chest.

Tonight, that will be enough.

And tomorrow, well, tomorrow he expects she'll have a pint-sized visitor, ready to dote upon her just as she had him, and dole out all the love a boy of four can manage.

It had healed him, surely it would heal her, too.


End file.
